Fault
by IlluminatedShadow
Summary: Special relationships are supposed to be easy. But Alfred couldn't leave well enough alone and Arthur's not completely blameless and Matthew keeps getting dragged in. Featuring America, England, Canada, and the unfortunate relationships between them.


This was meant to be light-hearted and fun and eventually leading up happy UK/Canada...but then I finished it in anger and this was born. -ashamed look- I was just so upset and guilty and not happy that I took it out on my three favorite characters. I'm a bad person.

Also, I should stop demonizing Alfred and start demonizing Arthur and maybe Matthew.

I'm sorry for spamming everyone.

Warnings: OOCness, fail, mentioned sexual scenes, no resolution whatsover, inaccuracy, fail, mentioned smut, language, confusion, mentioned dubcon

Pairing: the closest I will ever get to writing US/UK, UK/CAN, US/CAN/UK, US/CAN

Disclaimer: Its fantastic that I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

"Oh, _Matthew."_

The bed squeaked ominously, once, before all movement stilled.

"…Did you just…" Alfred stared at the older nation, having let the other's member slip out of his mouth, as he slowly moved away from his partner's lap with wide eyes. "…Did you seriously just…"

Arthur avoided the younger man's gaze, choosing instead to study the frilled edge of the bed sheets. A dark red flush filled his face and he sputtered uselessly, a few nonsensical words and half-hearted negatives, before he quieted.

"How long?" Alfred asked, voice painfully quiet and too calm…like that brief moment before a tornado strikes.

"I don't know." Arthur replied, drawing his knees up to his chin, the sheets pooling around his waist and dripping around him. He dragged his hand through his choppy sandy hair, letting his head drop back against the headboard.

"That's not an answer." The rising power pointed out, voice trembling just so. "How long have you wanted to fuck Matthew?" He demanded, hand clenching into a fist and coming down hard onto the mattress. "How long, huh Arthur? At what point?"

Alfred doesn't like this feeling of inadequacy, this feeling of coming in second.

Losers don't accomplish anything. Heroes aren't losers. Heroes have to win and that's all he can tell himself every morning just to make it through the day because sometimes even he doesn't understand how the world is still spinning.

What's worse is that he's not even surprised.

Because Matthew has been the good son, the momma's boy, and the darling—the forgotten child who would jump at the slightest bit of affection.

Or something. He doesn't know because Matthew is going through some issues right now and won't speak to him.

"This doesn't have to change anything." Arthur said quietly, reaching out and taking Alfred's hand in his.

And for the briefest moment, Alfred wants to believe his former guardian because before Matthew, it was Alfred—always Alfred.

Arthur wouldn't cry if Matthew left him. For all Matthew's loyalty, Arthur has never entered into a special relationship with him. And Arthur can't ignore him now that Alfred has grown leaps and bounds and is only growing and the rest of the world owes him because he saved them and he's still saving them from that red specter.

They need him.

Arthur needs him.

And he feels bad because Matthew is a good brother and the closest one to him. Of course, the Canadian is also the most dangerous because he knows all the secrets and hopes and fears Alfred hides away and pretends don't exist. Matthew could ruin him if he were a lesser man.

"Touch me." Alfred orders. "And say my name."

* * *

"Just this once." Alfred says the next day, all smiles and happy.

Arthur stares at him, long and hard, before his gaze drifts to where Matthew is speaking in hushed French with Francis.

Alfred waits for Arthur to turn down the offer but the longer he watches Matthew, the more Alfred just wants to get the fucking thing over with so Arthur can go back to paying attention to him.

* * *

Alfred watched, perhaps a little detached, as Arthur pressed Matthew further against the unyielding oak of his headboard. Strong fingers tangled into wheat-gold locks, the Englishman buried his face into the curve of the younger nation, chapped lips and curious teeth working over the blond's milky skin, dragging soft pants from bruised lips as Matthew squirmed under the other's attentions.

In response, Arthur bit particularly hard into the other's corded muscle, earning a breathless gasp from Matthew, who turned his head away to look at Alfred, curls smeared across his cheeks and indigo eyes bright.

The moonlight dripped into the room through the large window overlooking the untamed West Virginian country, spilling across the bodies writhing against each other in the bed, breaking and scattering.

Arthur's back was well-defined, ancient scars mapped across the expanse of his skin, burns that never really healed overlapped the sharp knobs of his spine and with each movement, each moment of history rippled teasingly and Alfred would return to bed and dig his fingers into time, but he knew the Englishman wouldn't retreat from his re-conquest of Canada.

Instead Alfred ignored the way Matthew pleadingly gestured for him to come back. The superpower uncurled his self from the chair he had taken moved to when Arthur made it obvious that he was more interested in the different ways he could make Matthew wail instead of the three fingers Alfred was twisting inside of him, and pulled on his boxers and talked out of the room.

He slammed the door behind him when he heard Matthew practically _purr._

He'd rather sleep on the couch.

* * *

The next morning, Alfred trudges back upstairs to his room and it takes everything he has not to slam the door when he sees Arthur and Matthew curled up on the bed. The Englishman is wrapped around the blond, despite their height difference, and Matthew's face is pressed into the former empire's chest.

Alfred swallows roughly, reminded, yet again, that he's just an intruder.

* * *

"You're the one who invited me." Matthew repeated, a testament to his infinite patience in the face of his raging brother. There's a quizzical twist to his lips, one eyebrow quirked upwards, as he moves about the kitchen, an armful of sandwich ingredients held precariously. "Honestly, Alfred. You just can't go around blaming people for no reason. Let this be a lesson, brother. Don't ever ply me with alcohol, let your boyfriend take body shots off me, and then suggest a threesome. You know, if I was sober, I'd never have consented."

Alfred was slumped over the table, giving his brother a positively dirty look. "You could've said no anyways." He muttered.

"I was drunk and horny." Matthew gave the superpower an unimpressed, flat look—every bit of his expression British. "And the both of you were attempting to have your way with me on the table. Would you have said no if it were Arthur and I double-teaming you? The wrong head won out."

Alfred scowled, the smooth wood of the table scratching his cheek, not wanting to acknowledge that last night—like some of his ideas—backfired terribly on him. "You're a slut."

He much prefers finding a scapegoat.

Matthew snorts quietly, shaking his head and not once stilling as he continued to spread mayonnaise on a slice of white bread, choosing not to deign that with a response (no matter how much he wants to throw the jar of mayonnaise at his stupid brother).

"You stole my boyfriend."

"I didn't steal anything of yours, especially not Arthur." Matthew said dryly, stacking sliced turkey onto the bread before adding a slice of cheese and a tomato slice. He tops off the sandwich with another slice of bread and transfers it to a plate before placing it in front of Alfred. "It was a onetime thing, Al. No need to worry." The blond shrugged, a bit dismissively.

Alfred, quietly seething, said nothing as Matthew quickly wiped his hands and said goodbye, saying something about a frantic call from one of his provinces.

"Ontario's bragging about his CN Tower. Again." Matthew rolled his eyes. "I'd better go and make sure Quebec doesn't try to kill him. Again." He pats Alfred cheerfully on the back, bending to give his sulking neighbor and brother a sweet kiss on the head before making his way out of the kitchen.

"You don't get it!" Alfred called after him, sitting up properly and shoving the table forward. "He loves you!"

Matthew paused, hand pressed against the sunshiny yellow of Alfred's kitchen wall. He looks like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it, shaking his head.

When Matthew finally leaves and Alfred hears the ignition of his brother's stupid car start, the superpower swears loudly and, spying the innocent sandwich on the table, purses his lips and, with a sweep of one arm, sends the plate toppling to the floor, sandwich flipping off pathetically.

Matthew had cut the crusts of his sandwich.

Blue eyes soften fractionally before Alfred buries his face back into his arms.

* * *

Special relationship means Alfred can drag Arthur away to random broom closets during meeting breaks and no one bats an eye.

"Careful, git!" Arthur swears when the superpower shoves him into a closet, slams the door behind him.

Alfred reaches up, carelessly pulls on the string leading up to the lone, dirty light bulb and pale yellow flickers briefly, before staining the tiny room in its weak glow.

Arthur is glaring at him, arms crossed, and, no doubt, a blistering diatribe on the tip of his tongue.

"Get on your knees." The golden-haired nation orders.

There is no room for argument in his tone and that's good. Because Arthur needs to remember its Alfred so he can't for a moment think otherwise.

With a huff and a quick roll of green eyes, Arthur is sliding down, idly pulling up his trousers to keep from tearing them. Alfred is too impatient so he pushes his former guardian down the rest of the way, letting his hand rest on messy sandy-hair.

"Say my name." He whispers, his throat closing awkwardly around the words.

Arthur stiffens, pausing in dragging down the younger nation's dress pants. "Alfred."

And, despite the warning in his voice, Alfred feels embarrassedly happy.

* * *

Alfred drags Arthur out the same way during the next break, except this time he is the one who gets on his knees.

When they reach the meeting room, Matthew is walking back with Ukraine and Alfred takes the opportunity to plant a kiss on the Canadian with Arthur watching, horrified.

Its almost cruel, but he feels like he needs to make a point.

What point, exactly, he's not sure.

(He's accomplished more with less.)

Ukraine blushes and stammers something, already fleeing and completely gone once Matthew manages to untangle himself from his brother.

"Hey, now, dude." Alfred whispered, pushing his brother against the wall, lips brushing against the other nation's ear. "It's not like you're anything more than friends."

Matthew grits his teeth and shoves his brother but Alfred just laughs, taking the push like a defenseman. Its fun pushing Matthew, sometimes, especially when his brother won't push back because he's wholeheartedly embraced his role of the good one. Then, he kisses Matthew again, lip slipping between his brother's and coaxing the blond to come and play.

Matthew side swipes him across the chin and Alfred curses, rubbing at his jaw line with accusing eyes directed at the other blond. The Canadian is covering his mouth, his expression tinged green, as he gags delicately.

"You're disgusting." He hisses, his hand turning as he scrapes his lips roughly. Matthew's gaze turns to Arthur, then. "Both of you."

* * *

"So…have you heard at all from him?" Alfred asked, his voice flecked with hesitance, as he rolled over onto his side, thin sheets snagging around his narrow waist as he propped himself up by his elbow.

His sharp blue eyes watched as his bedmate grunted before disengaging himself from the invasive sheets and stood from the bed, a portion of history mapped on his back, scars upon scars upon scars.

Alfred shivered, wondering if this was like staring directly at your future.

"Heard from who?" Arthur asked brusquely, moving away from the bed and locating his trousers, bending down, moonlight tracing the curve of his backside, and snatching up the cloth, before tugging it on militarily and zipping it with swift finality.

"Mattie." Alfred sighed, digging his fingers into the mattress, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, as his former colonizer's face remained unmoved as he located his different pieces of clothing and redressed.

"Who?" The dwindling Empire queried harshly, tone clearly conveying his lack of patience.

"Matthew." The blond muttered, blue eyes still locked on the other's face. "You know, Canada."

Arthur huffed a bit, green eyes squinting as he buttoned his shirt, slender fingers darting up the row of buttons before moving up to straighten his collar. Suddenly his hands stilled and his eyes widened fractionally. "Oh, Matthew." He said, voice suddenly softening ever even as the furrows between his heavy brows smoothed.

And there was that face, Alfred noted bitterly, fingers curling against the mattress, the thin sheet trapped between his vice-like grip—tearing against his strength.

Arthur's entire countenance seemed to shift from barely concealed disdain to tender admiration. That stupid smile—the one he had always reserved solely for Matthew—appeared briefly, the corners of his eyes crinkling before the look disappeared entirely, much to Alfred's relief.

"Unfortunately, I have not." The elder nation admitted quietly, adjusting his cuffs, gaze hidden by the shadows.

"And that's why you're going to him now." Alfred said petulantly. "Because he's not speaking to you."

Arthur's hands stilled and a vaguely guilty expression flitted across his visage. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes." He snapped.

* * *

"Arthur." Matthew isn't smiling when the Englishman appears on his doorway at four in the morning. But he lets his former guardian inside, regardless, and just wraps his dressing gown tighter around himself.

"You're angry." Arthur states quietly, following his former charge into his living room, eyes flicking over the framed photos of Matthew with his provinces and territories, his mouth curling upwards.

"I'm not." Matthew corrects, sitting on the chesterfield, not so subtly looking at the armchair a ways off. Arthur sits in that armchair. "But if you're here to apologize—"

"I'm not."

"—and I was stupid to think so." Matthew murmurs tiredly, hands coming up to tangle in his blond hair. "Why do you always do this?" He wants to add _to me_, but he figures it's understood.

"I've tried to ignore it, ignore you." Arthur explains, fingers drumming on the arm of his seat. "It never works."

"You're special to me, Arthur." Matthew responds, voice kind as it has always been when directed at the once Empire. "But not like that."

* * *

"Why you?" Alfred asked during lunch, flicking a chip at Matthew to get his attention. "You're kind of boring, bland, and have issues."

"Speak for yourself." Matthew grumbled, already gathering up his food to go sit somewhere else. "You ass."

"Seriously, what do you have that I don't? You wouldn't even exist without me. I have everything."

A hush falls over the conference room, having heard the loud statement, all the nations looking cautiously at the pair of them.

Matthew's face is stoic. "And yet Arthur doesn't love you." He says coldly, ice on his lips.

* * *

"Are you punishing me?" Alfred asks, cornering Arthur in a White House corridor. He holds the other nation back with one hand. "Is this because I didn't want to follow your rules? Because I gave you a chance to fix things but you didn't and what else could I do?"

Arthur stares, in distaste, at the hand before drawing his gaze up to the superpower.

"Why won't you bloody well just leave it alone?" He snaps, thick eyebrows knitted together. "I'm sorry I ignored you in favor of Matthew that night. I'm sorry I said his name when we were together. I'm sorry you seem to think it means more than what it is."

Alfred removes his hand and lets Arthur brush past him.

Empty apologies.

* * *

Alfred watches when Arthur takes Matthew's hands in his, the two of them greeting each other as their Prime Ministers do the same. He sees the way Arthur lingers around Matthew, not quite touching but just being _there_. His face is gentle in a way that hasn't been directed at him ever. Its not adoration and love, its something else more intimate and better.

It's something personal and Alfred feels like a filthy voyeur.

* * *

"Lets talk about border control." Alfred smirks against Matthew's collar, digging his fingers into the other's hips.

Deep down, he knows this is wrong, to use his brother to get what he wants.

But he's done it before because he always knew that in order to get Arthur's attention, sometimes he has to make Matthew cry.

Oh god.

He shudders, pulling back from kiss-slick lips and grabs the bottle of Jack Daniels he brought along. He takes a swig and forces his lips back onto Matthew's, pushing the fluids into the other's welcoming mouth, the warm liquid trickling out of the corner and staining his shirt, and ignores the way the blond crumples against him.

He pretends not to see Arthur in the doorway.

* * *

"You're the one who started all this." Arthur hisses, absolutely livid, when he finally dislodges himself from his spot and drags Alfred away from the blond.

Matthew is panting, hands clenching the table behind him. His wavy blond locks shield his face and he won't raise his eyes to either of them.

"And I thought you'd dismiss it like everything else I do!" Alfred retorts, angry and upset and trying to keep from storming out.

"You're acting like a child—"

"Why won't you love me?" Alfred interrupts, voice raw. "I've done so much…I've achieved so much…and it's not enough. Why isn't it enough?"

Its sibling rivalry at its worst and Alfred, despite his overconfidence and strength, is still that idealist who craves his big brother's approval.

"Its not you, lad." Arthur's face is torn now and his arms hang uselessly next to him. "Its not you, its me."

Matthew speaks up now, indigo eyes sparking. "Its both of you." He corrects.

* * *

"Because he has never wanted me." Arthur said quietly.

"That's fucked up." Alfred responds, standing outside his hotel room door.

He doesn't invite Arthur inside.

* * *

I'm a horrible person. But I was furious (and trying to clear space on my laptop .). I really did write this out of anger, guys. And in an attempt to figure out this US/UK nonsense for myself.

I wish Hetalia hadn't included that moment with England forgetting Canada. I really wish it hadn't.

Granted, I don't even remember Canada all the time, but for a glaring part of history has been overlooked.

Sorry to unload on you guys, but I'm so very upset. -goes into corner-


End file.
